Fenris' Dream
by MsBarrows
Summary: Woke up with this in my head this morning. I'm blaming it on an overdose of DA2 fanfic and Patricia McKillip before bed.


He is in a wilderness, a place of trees and meadows and climbing vines, of bracken ferns and wild rose canes and things he cannot name. Sometimes it is a wilderness of cobbled streets and narrow laneways, of filthy hovels and shining palaces, there but empty, unpeopled save for him.

It is in a meadow that he finds his lawful prey, sees the white hart. Head lifted high, horns a sharp-pointed golden crown over wide dark eyes, large softly rounded ears swivelling to catch the faintest sound. It stands, tensed to run, but allows his slow approach. He reaches out, dark-armoured hand touches soft-furred shoulder, and it is gone, bounding away over the meadow like the wild creature it is, dressed in moonlight, shod in silver.

In the way of dreams physical limits mean nothing. He races at its side, bent low, long bare-toed feet digging into mossy ground, into long grasses, splashing through gravelled streambeds, slapping against stone, as they run through the night. It avoids his touch, hindquarters bunching to send it surging away, hoofed feet flashing as it dances sideways just beyond reach of straining fingertips. He chases the dream of it down forest paths, up steep hillsides, through filth-floored alleyways, across farmers fields.

He brings it to bay at last, sheer stone walls rearing all around, in a place that stinks of death and despair. He approaches. It watches him, eyes dark and wary, head turned just slightly. He does not touch; he sinks to his knees, chest heaving still with the effort of the chase. Can see the motion of its own narrow chest and sharply incurved stomach as it, too, strains to catch its breath. A single hoof raises, curls near its chest. It is tense, ready to flee again. Beautiful, the white hart, with the shadows of chains cast over its slender body and the stars reflected in liquid dark eyes.

The hoof lowers slowly to the ground. No more an enclosed city space, but rather an open hilltop, high and smelling of heather and the wind. He looks up. The moon is caught in golden horns, framed by them. The hart looks down at him, eyes dark and enigmatic. Then moves; not away, but slow steps closer. He holds his breath as its slender neck lowers. The sharp-tipped horns come down, a warning, a threat, a promise, as they bracket his face, his whole head, a long tine just lightly grazing the tips of each shoulder as the hart steps close and sniffs cautiously at him.

It is so close he can see every fine white hair on its brow, can smell its heady scent of wilderness and musk. A soft nose nudges his collarbone, startling a laugh out of him. It jerks, freezes, the point of a single tine pressing warningly against his temple, sharp and hard as an arrow's tip. He holds his breath, then slowly, so slowly, reaches up one hand and wonderingly touches its cheek. It remains still, allows the touch. Its furred coat is soft as silk. He skims his fingertips along the curve of its cheek, lightly touches one rounded ear, strokes along the firmly muscled flesh of its neck, careful to keep the sharp tips of his gauntlets well away from tender flesh.

It steps back, a smooth fluid movement, and he feels bereft as it leaves him. It stops a short distance away. Its head turns, it watches him out of one dark eye, waiting. His hand is still held up and out, and he sees it change, the sharp tips becoming claws in truth, the dark armour fraying and spreading and becoming a dark coat of fur. He is four-legged now too, and they run again, the white hart and the dark wolf, side by side through the night, darting together and apart so that some times the other is just a faint speck at the limits of sight and some times they are so close that their limbs or flanks brush together as they dodge and dart and leap.

They stop again, in a forest clearing, and now it is the white hart who changes, from deer to man. He is grinning widely, dark eyes alight with pleasure. The wolf avoids his touch, and circles him, again and again, missing the deer yet aware that the man is the deer, the deer is the man. The man sits still, very still, hands spread flat on thighs. The wolf circles nearer. The man is talking softly, coaxingly. The words don't matter, it is the tone of voice, the low soothing grumble, that draws the beast in closer.

It circles in behind him, then moves to rest its narrow jaw on his shoulder. The man laughs, breathlessly, turning his head just slightly so green wolf-eye and blue man-eye can meet, can gaze at one another. He slowly raises one hand. The wolf growls warningly, but allows the hand to approach, to come closer. Fingers brush across soft fur, stroke over it, sink in behind sharp-pointed ears and scratch. The wolf growls warningly still, but leans into the touch. Its tongue licks out, tastes the skin of the man's neck – salt and soap, incense and musk. The man laughs at the touch. The noise startles the wolf, and it leaps to one side.

* * *

><p>Fenris lay sprawled across his bed, wondering if he would ever dream of a moment when wolf and hart were both men at the same time. He was not sure he ever wanted to. It was... <em>safe<em>, to dream of them this way, together but different, where the only thing they could share was the joy of the hunt, the pleasure of the running. Where they never touched in ways threatening to their separate solitudes.

He had got as far as getting up and dressing before someone started hammering on his door. "Fenris!" a familiar voice bellowed. "Get out here! We're got work to do!"

"Coming, Hawke," he called, as he hurried down the stairs and over to the door.

Hawke grinned as he stepped outside. "About time," the warrior said, and turned away, almost skipping as he moved over to walk by Anders' side, having to crane his head to grin up at the much taller mage.

Fenris fought back a smile as he fell into his accustomed place behind the pair. There was a time when he'd wished that it had been him that Hawke looked at that way, but... it was the mage the man loved. Not him. He had learned to be content with Hawke's friendship.

"A fine morning for a little hunt," Sebastian observed as he fell into step at Fenris' side, his white and gold armour flashing in the sun.

"Yes," Fenris agreed, smiling warmly at his friend.


End file.
